


I Long to Feel the Rain on My Face (So I Wait)

by br0ken_hands



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 12:11:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18410399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br0ken_hands/pseuds/br0ken_hands
Summary: "What's wrong?"Beau's leaning up on her elbow, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Ever perceptive, her monk."Nothing. Just a bad dream." She answers, voice soft..or, I speak of my undying love for Yasha Nydoorin





	I Long to Feel the Rain on My Face (So I Wait)

Lightning. Searing the backs of her eyes as it flashes, even with her eyes closed. Darkness in brilliant light, and then nothing again. Breath.

 

Thunder. Rolling, booming, deafening. There are words in the din, but she can't hear them over the roaring of blood in her ears. Breath.

 

Rain. Drenching her from head to toe, soaking leather and fur until they sit heavy on her shoulders. It's cold, terribly cold. Breath.

 

Blood. Warm against her forearm and face as it splatters, hers or someone else's. It doesn't matter, it all looks and feels the same. Breath.

 

Screams. Pathetic pleas of mercy and sobs, all begging to live, to be spared of endless wrath. They are meaningless to her. Breath.

 

Death. Rot, ruin, decay, it lingers like flies on a corpse, stinks like sacrilege. A body, eyes long pecked out by ravens, opens its dilapidated jaw. _Orphanmaker_.

 

Yasha wakes, shooting up to sit, panting, skin covered in a sheen of sweat. The room is dark. Not as dark as her dreams. There is candlelight from the hallway that flickers almost comfortingly, and moonlight filters through the wooden shutters of the window. Hot. It's too hot. And too cold. The night air settles over sweat-slicked skin and sets a chill in her bones. There's not enough air in her lungs and she heaves, trying to fill them back up. Sweet. The air she breathes is sweet and her heart slows from its sprint.

 

She breathes out, shaky. Pale fingers dig into the sheets and she pulls her hair out of her face. Bed. She's in bed. She turns to look beside her to see a lithe back turned to her, red marks trailing down her dark skin from her kiss-marked shoulders to disappear under too-thin sheets, hair spilling from its abandoned topknot. In the silence of the room, her sleeping breaths are deafening.

 

Yasha slowly moves the sheets pooled around her waist aside and turns to stand by the bed, fists clenched together even as her forearms tremble at the force of the grip. As quietly as she can, she makes her way to the window and opens it just a bit to look outside.

 

The skies are clear, the hills silvery with the light of the moon. Little lights dance from the far reaches of the city but for as far as she can see, she is alone.

 

Yasha breathes.

 

Orphanmaker.

 

She looks back at the body in her bed. Is she an orphan if her parents all but rejected her and replaced her with a son?

 

Fjord surely is an orphan. And yet, raised by a man he considers his father. Does that make him an orphan?

 

What of Caleb, who has never spoken of his parents to her but has been adopted by Nott? And what of his parents, if a magic user so prestigious is both not with them and afraid of the fiery power he wields?

 

Nott? Was her son an orphan? Could he have been made a not-orphan, or was he never one in the first place?

 

Jester, whose mother lives on the other side of the mountains trapped between two warring nations as her daughter becomes the hero of one?

 

What of Caduceus, who watched his entire family leave by will and never return? What if they're still alive? Does he see himself to be an orphan?

 

And Mollymauk. His name alone brings a shiver to her spine. Mollymauk who was only two when he died, never knowing his parents or anyone in his past life.

 

What does it mean to be Orphanmaker if she can't even know what an orphan makes?

 

She shakes her head to rid herself of the thought. She's too close to Xhorhas. It's starting to become too much. The dreams. The memories. Broken bodies and shattered spirits. Empty eyes in a breathless exhale. Zuala.

 

On the bed, there's a shifting sound, and then a little more frantic movements before a sigh.

 

"Come back to bed, Yasha." 

 

Her voice is like that of a siren across acres of open fields, and Yasha feels compelled to turn to look at her.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

Beau's leaning up on her elbow, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Ever perceptive, her monk.

 

"Nothing. Just a bad dream." She answers, voice soft. 

 

Beau blinks at her like she's taking her in, reading her. If there was a waver in her voice, Beau doesn't say anything about it. "Okay." She concludes, and that's that.

 

Yasha's eternally grateful.

 

She turns back to the window and thinks. Thinks about tempests and her god, equal to mercy as he is to massacre. Herald of storms, salvation, and slaughter. Thinks about the blood on her hands and the boots that trod this unforgiving ground in a relentless pursuit to pay a debt she doesn't know the sum of. Thinks of blue, stormy and peaceful all at the same time, a body held together around crackling energy by sheer force of will and muscle like the charge before a lightning strike. Thinks about how fists now leap in sparking bolts that set the air alight and strike into foes two dozen feet away with the same precision they comb through her hair with after a long night spent in pooling sheets and tangled limbs.

 

She can feel eyes watching her almost like a sentinel, a bastion of calm and composure when she can hardly find it within herself to seek her own peace.

 

She could write poetry about this woman and yet none of its readers would come close to comprehending the storm that roils in her chest when they lock eyes.

 

Yasha sighs, shoulders lighter than when she first woke, and turns back to pad softly across the wood floor and crawl back into bed.

 

Beau says nothing, though her eyes are bright in the dark, something meaningful and sombre in them, but Yasha is far too tired to tell. She pulls Beau close to her and closes her eyes, feels a kiss brush against her temple, and she lets sleep claim her again.

 

She dreams of blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing to say here, other than I love Yasha a crazy amount and can't wait for Ashley to come back, and I just wanted to go back to some of my older more descriptive writing roots.
> 
> Title from The London Air Raids by Vian Isak
> 
> Tumblr: frumpkinspocketdimension  
> Discord: SweetBabyRae#0967


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